Swan's Grace Read online

  His eyes narrowed. “Sophie?”

  “Ding, ding, ding,” she chimed, covering her fluttering heart with a laugh. “You win the prize.”

  One dark brow tilted sardonically, and for a second she would have sworn he almost smiled.

  “You’re here,” he stated, his intense gaze never wavering. “And you’re early.”

  “Ding, ding, right again. You are a veritable feast of correct answers tonight.”

  His brows flattened to hard lines.

  “Alas,” she continued as she sauntered forward, her dainty heels clicking against the marble, “we caught an earlier ship out of France. A bucket of bolts held together with baling wire and twine, as far as I could see. But it got us here so I could surprise Father.” She stopped abruptly as a thought occurred to her. “How did you know that I was coming home?”

  For a second this tall, commanding man seemed confused, or perhaps surprised by what she had said; then it was gone. “Your father told me.”

  “Ah, well, that explains it. And since you know so much, why isn’t my father here?” But the question trailed off, replaced by another. “Why are you here?”

  His confusion resurfaced; then something dangerous flashed in his eyes. “Don’t you know?”

  They stared at each other, and she felt curiously disconcerted by the way he looked at her. Strangely possessive.

  “No, I don’t know, Grayson. If I did I wouldn’t have asked.”

  His gaze burned into her, the arrogance, the sense of possession, making her feel as though he had run his open palm over her skin. Her body tingled, and she was all too aware of this man.

  She had liked it better when they were both young, she following him around like a shadow. Their families the best of friends.

  A ghost of a smile surfaced as she remembered—her father with Grayson’s father, smoking cigars in the study.

  Grayson’s mother with her mother, sipping tea at Hawthorne House.

  Oddly, she had never been enamored of his brothers, Matthew and Lucas. She had liked them well enough, but it was Grayson who drew her, always had. But as adults, the ease they had shared as children no longer existed. The air between them now was charged, heated, just as it had been the night of her father’s party.

  “I live here,” he stated.

  She blinked. “What?”

  “I said, I live here.”

  “You live here?” In her home?

  Her heart began to pound in a way that had nothing to do with strange possessiveness or burning gazes. But she refused to give in to the rush of uncertainty. “Fallen on hard times, have you?” she quipped, forcing the words from her mouth. “Sorry to hear it. But it’s a big house. The more the merrier, I always say.”

  She had to find her father.

  Gathering her long skirts, she started to turn away. But he caught her arm. His long, chiseled fingers curled with surprising gentleness just below her capped sleeve, and she couldn’t seem to look at anything else but his golden skin pressed against her own.

  For one startled moment she saw his hand, though it was a smaller, younger hand that she saw in her mind. All of a sudden she was a child, awkward, her hair wild and untamed, smudges on her cheeks as he brushed grit from her knee. Her dear, sweet Grayson. Her knight. The only person who had always been there for her—except once, when she had needed him the most.

  Her head jerked up and she looked at him, so tall, so strong, not an ounce of weakness about him. “How could you have wanted her?” she whispered.

  “What?”

  Her breath hissed in with a painful gasp as she remembered where she was, in Swan’s Grace, five years later. No one knew about her nocturnal visit to see Grayson years ago. And she intended to keep it that way.

  Her laughter was hollow in her own ears, and she tried to pull away.

  But he held her there and with the crook of his finger, he nudged her chin. “I’m not sure why there is this confusion, but I am not a boarder, Sophie. I own Swan’s Grace now. I thought you knew.”

  Every ounce of her forced humor evaporated at the words, and she tugged her arm free. “That’s absurd.”

  “I was led to believe Conrad talked to you about this.” His eyes darkened even more, that dangerous flash resurfacing, as if there was something else he wasn’t saying. “I bought the house from your father three months ago.”

  Her world spun and she couldn’t seem to breathe. She hated the surety she heard in his voice.

  But then she got a hold of herself. “That is ridiculous. It is not his house to sell.”

  “I’m afraid it was.”

  “It’s mine!” A thread of panic flared in her voice.

  “But it was in his name. The contract—”

  “No!” she blurted out, cutting him off. “It was in his name, yes, but only because of an idiotic document I signed when I turned eighteen, giving him control of my affairs.” At the time it had seemed a small price to pay for her freedom. A small price to pay to be allowed to leave Boston and attend Leipzig Music Conservatory in Germany. But her father never would have sold her house, she was sure.

  Calm down, she ordered herself silently.

  “Document or no, my father hasn’t made a single attempt to involve himself in my life in years.” As she said the words, she knew they were true, and the calm she fought for began to surface. “Clearly this is a misunderstanding. We will get it straightened out with my father as soon as I find him.”

  She laughed, suddenly relieved as she regained her composure. Without thinking, she reached across to pat his arm. Instantly his gaze shifted to her fingers against his dark coat, and she would have sworn she felt a tremor race through his body—as if this imposing man felt some sort of vulnerability at her touch. Suddenly she wondered what it would feel like to tangle her fingers with his. To hold tight. To feel Grayson wrap his arms around her as he had when they were young.

  With a self-conscious little chirp, she yanked her hand back. “Rest assured, if indeed some mistake has been made and money has changed hands, I will see to it that my father returns every penny.”

  His elegant panther’s body grew still as he lifted his head and considered her with cool, appraising eyes. He seemed to look into her, searching. He had always been too good at reading her thoughts, as if he could see into her soul. It was all she could do not to close her eyes.

  “The money is not my concern.”

  “Well, good. Then there won’t be any problems. In the meantime, we are exhausted. Come along, everyone.” The sooner she got away from him the better. Tremors and emotion, seeing into souls? Good God, before long she would be eight years old again, idyllic and romantic, believing in knights in shining armor.

  But the world wasn’t idyllic or romantic. And there certainly was no such thing as a knight in any kind of armor.

  The travelers started toward the stairs.

  “Sophie,” he stated, the word a quiet command.

  At the bottom of the steps she turned back. His chiseled features appeared even more grim.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  “You can’t stay here.”

  His words rumbled through the foyer and her heart leaped. They had no place else to go, and she had no money to pay for lodging. “Why can’t we?”

  The question stopped him. He stood for a moment and stared at her, this bold, commanding man, his handsome face shifting into hard, frustrated planes as he seemed to carry on some battle within himself.

  “For now, let’s just say that it isn’t proper for an unmarried woman to sleep in the home of a bachelor,” he replied evenly.

  With that, a slow smile pulled across Sophie’s lips, her equilibrium finally, truly restored. She stepped back and ran the tips of her fingers provocatively down the sleeve of his suit coat, ignoring the heat that flared in his eyes. “So it is true. You really have turned into a fine Victorian prude.”

  Surprise flared, though only briefly, before the muscles in his jaw tightened. Tension c
rackled in the air, and standing so close to him she could smell the deep, heated scent of sandalwood.

  “Alas,” she continued, stepping away as quickly as she could without looking like she was fleeing, “I’m not terribly concerned about my reputation. But if you’re concerned about yours, the Hotel Vendome isn’t too far down the road. No doubt you could secure a suitable room over there.”

  Grayson slammed the brass knocker against the massive front door of the palatial limestone and marble mansion on The Fens. The street was quiet, gaslights his only company. It was late, much too late for a call. But Grayson wasn’t about to wait until morning to confront Conrad Wentworth.

  Impatiently he banged the knocker again, pacing across the gray-slate terrace until he heard fumbling inside. At length, the door pulled open a crack.

  Raymond, the Wentworth family butler, peered through the opening, his face creased with sleep, his trousers and waistcoat hastily thrown on, a candle and holder held up, casting a faint circle of light onto the front stoop.

  “Mr. Hawthorne,” the man stated, alarmed.

  “I’m here to see your employer.”

  Raymond stammered, stepping back, the door opening farther. “But Mr. Wentworth has retired for the night.”

  “Then tell him to unretire.”

  The butler clearly didn’t know what to make of the situation, but when Grayson stepped into the house, he didn’t stop him.

  Boot heels ringing on marble tiles, Grayson strode past two jewel-encrusted lions that perched in the foyer. Unlike most Bostonians, Conrad Wentworth wasn’t opposed to displaying his wealth.

  Wealth? Hell. If Conrad had bought fewer jewels for his house and his wife they might not be in this situation.

  Grayson was only glad he had learned about Conrad’s desire to sell Swan’s Grace before it had gone to someone else. Though that certainly didn’t help them now.

  “But, sir—”

  “Get him, Raymond.”

  The butler was saved from making a decision when a light came on at the top of the stairs.

  “What is going on down there?”

  Grayson turned to find Conrad Wentworth pulling on a silk robe over his nightshirt.

  “Good God, Grayson. What is going on?”

  “I want to know why the hell you signed a legal document selling your daughter’s property without her consent.”

  Conrad halted on the stairs for a moment, then continued on. When he came to the foyer, his slippered feet hit the tiles with a shuffle, and when he spoke, his voice was a study in calm as he smoothed his sleep-ruffled gray hair. “I signed that document because I had every right to.”

  Grayson pinned him with a glare. “You told me she was in agreement.” He reined in his frustration as he stared at the older man. “And if you didn’t tell her about the house, I can only surmise that you didn’t tell her about the betrothal.” The house went quiet.

  Conrad shifted his weight uncomfortably. With a wave of his hand he sent the butler away, then he strode into a study off the foyer. The room was dark, but a gaslight quickly brightened the fine wood interior. He directed Grayson to one of the two wing-backed chairs that faced a beautifully carved mahogany mantel. But Grayson wasn’t interested in sitting.

  Conrad cast a quick, nervous glance at him. “No, I haven’t told her about the betrothal. But you are wrong about my authority. I am Sophie’s father, and I have every right to guide her life.”

  “When she was younger, but not as an adult.”

  “Sophie is not just any adult. She has become a famous adult, and she was a child prodigy before that—the kind of woman all sorts of people try to take advantage of. I control a trust that was set up for her when her mother died, which includes Swan’s Grace, and it gives me the right to make decisions regarding her affairs.”

  “If you felt so certain about this trust, why haven’t you directed her before now?”

  Conrad grimaced. “I’ve had other things on my mind.”

  “That is clear.” Grayson seethed. “But she’s your daughter.”

  “Sophie is not the only daughter I have!”

  “Ah, yes. Your new family. How could I forget.” Conrad flushed red, his stance growing defensive. “I was giving Sophie a chance to fulfill her dreams as a musician. She has succeeded. That magazine article is proof of that. But now it is time she returned home to make a suitable life for herself. She’s a woman, for mercy’s sake. She can’t be a musician forever. More than that, she certainly can’t continue to travel around the world with that ill-assorted group of hangers-on the article mentioned. And I plan to tell her about the arrangements I’ve made just as soon as she arrives.”

  “Arrived,” Grayson clarified impatiently. “Sophie is already here.”

  “What? She’s not supposed to be here for another week!”

  “Sophie is in Boston, at the Commonwealth Avenue house, expecting you.” His jaw tightened. “Hell, Conrad, you didn’t even bother to tell her you had moved.”

  The older man looked chagrined. “I had planned to explain that, too, when I picked her up at the harbor and brought her here to The Fens.” The lines of his face softened. “I had planned to drive her around the Public Gardens, perhaps get out and walk over to see the skaters on the lagoon. I was going to tell her everything.”

  “And you think that would have been enough? A quick explanation during a stroll through the park? After the papers were signed?”

  The softness evaporated and Conrad matched Grayson’s anger. “She is twenty-three years old, and it’s time she learned that there is more to life than music. She needs guidance. And as her father, it is my responsibility to see to her welfare. I’m seeing to it now, and if I have to use that trust to get it done, so be it. She will move in here where she belongs until she is married.”

  Grayson raked his hand through his hair. “God, what a mess.” He looked at the older man with barely held patience. “Surely you understand that this is not the way to get your daughter to settle down. Sophie will only fight you.” His gaze narrowed to slits of obsidian. “Which means she will also fight me.”

  “Let her fight. Whether she wants to admit it or not, I’m doing what is best for her.” He gave a sharp tug to tighten the belted sash at his waist. “I will explain the situation to my daughter. I will go over there first thing in the morning.”

  “Tell her about the house,” Grayson said, his temper under tight control. “But I don’t want you making things worse by telling her about the betrothal.” His eyes narrowed, his voice taking on a cold, hard edge. “I will tell her about our marriage myself. If she finds out that on top of everything else you betrothed her without her consent, she will be like a runaway horse with a bit between its teeth. She would reject the match simply to defy you.”

  “I am her father. She will not defy me!”

  “Then you’ve forgotten what Sophie is like.” Conrad grumbled. “I haven’t forgotten. She’s as headstrong as they come. Always has been.”

  “My point exactly. Now I will have to untangle this mess.”

  Chapter Three

  “I thought the betrothal was finalized.”

  It was the following morning, and Bradford Hawthorne, patriarch of the venerable Hawthorne family, spoke from the doorway of his study.

  Grayson stood at the mullioned window of Hawthorne House, tense and silent, his thoughts concealed as his father’s angry voice sliced through the room.

  He had woken up at the Hotel Vendome, his mood dangerous as he remembered Conrad Wentworth. Then he remembered the man’s daughter, and his mood changed, though it hadn’t gotten much better.

  Sophie.

  A constant in his life from the day she was born, she had followed him around, constantly talking, always asking questions. A whirlwind of trouble he had pulled out of more scraps than he cared to count.

  But there had also been a day when she had tried to save him.

  At the memory he felt the easing of that hardness in his h
eart. It was always the same when he thought of Sophie.

  Three months ago the match had seemed perfect. Two old Boston families coming together. A shared past that had meaning.

  But last night she had been different from the way he remembered her. She had changed. Or was he fooling himself?

  In truth, at Conrad’s birthday gala she had smiled with a confidence and self-possession that not many women had. On the surface she had been the picture of propriety, wearing a stunning though demure gown, her hair decorous, her jewels subtle. But her eyes had flashed something not proper at all. Like a fire carefully banked.

  In truth, there had always been that glimpse of boldness in Sophie. As a child she had always had a hint of independence. As an adult it appeared that hint had become a full-fledged streak that not many men could tame.

  His brow furrowed against the thought that it was those things that had intrigued him. Intrigued him enough that after leaving The Fens last night, he had nearly gone back to Swan’s Grace, despite propriety, to sleep in his own bed—with her in it. Just the thought of her made his blood surge hot and low. He wanted to pull her close, cup her round bottom, and press her body to his while he looked into those brown eyes flecked with green and watch them darken with awareness.

  Cursing silently, he reined in his thoughts.

  He hadn’t returned. He wouldn’t put it past Sophie Wentworth to send word to every paper in town that he had stayed there. Hell, she’d probably write the article herself— as if she needed an ounce more attention than she had already received from being featured in The Century.

  Clearly the woman didn’t subscribe to the dictate that a woman’s name should appear in print only twice in a lifetime, first when she married, then again when she died. And the last thing he needed was a scandal.

  Grayson shook his head. There had been too many scandals of late in the Hawthorne family. His younger brother Matthew had been ensnared in one that had rocked proper Bostonians to the core, and had had every New Englander riveted to the daily newspapers as the events unfolded. Matthew was married now, to an intriguing woman who had changed his life. The Hawthornes loved Finnea. Even Bradford had grudgingly conceded that she was good for his middle son. But it hadn’t always been that way.